Her Cop Protector. Sharon Hartley

about him to aid the police. Something about the still photo niggled at the back of her brain, some flash of familiarity. What was it?

      She decided that feeling was most likely from seeing him in the pet shop two days ago. She didn’t know him.

      On her short walk home to the Enclave, she tried again. Trouble was, when she dredged up an image of John Smith, her thoughts immediately drifted to Detective Dean Hammer and his oh-so-penetrating gaze. Blue eyes and black hair. What a combination. She shook her head. The less she thought about Hammer, the better. She needed to put the whole incident out of her mind.

      She paused as she entered the lobby, wondering if she should pay a visit to Uncle Mike’s beloved Shelby Cobra. She’d drive it to the bird walk next Saturday, but that was a week away and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d started that damn car. She sighed. Better do that now.

      Steeling herself for a trip down to the dungeon, she waved at Magda behind the concierge desk and entered the stairwell. Unfortunately, because the Cobra was seldom driven, its assigned parking spot was on the lowest level. June trudged down three flights, her uneasiness growing with each step.

      When she pushed open the heavy door to Tier C, she felt as if she’d entered a tomb. Dim overhead fluorescents gave every parked vehicle a looming, menacing aspect. The stale air reeked of petroleum products. Her quick steps echoed off thick concrete walls, an eerie sound. A suffocating sense of claustrophobia pressed her toward the oil-stained floor.

      This was how parrots felt when locked up in a cage. Birds were wired to fly free, just as humans were made to see the sky and breathe fresh air.

      She spotted the Cobra, its bright red paint covered as always by a green tarp, and hurried toward it, pulling her keys from her purse. She removed the tarp from the driver’s side and inserted the key. Uncle Mike refused to alter his precious Cobra in any way, so no battery-powered clicker opened this antique beauty.

      At a loud boom behind her, June whirled, fisting her hands until nails dug into her palms. Who— What was that?

      But no one was there. She was alone. June unclenched her fingers. Probably something falling in the garbage chute. Damn, but the subterranean levels always made her jumpy.

      She slid into the Cobra’s driver’s seat and ignited its powerful engine, which roared to life on the first try. Feeling her tension ease, she checked the fuel level. Over half-full. Good. No need to drive this—what did Mike call his baby? Oh, right. A muscle car. And not just any muscle car. For some reason this was a very special one, designed by some big-wheel car legend.

      To her it was just another gas guzzler.

      And when it came to muscles, the well-toned biceps on Dean Hammer’s arms were much more to her liking, even if the man had done nothing but make her life miserable.

      * * *

      AT HEADQUARTERS THE next morning, Dean rewatched the video of the pet-shop riot in one of the viewing rooms. Sanchez sat beside him, also focused on the monitor.

      Once again June Latham’s recitation of the events matched what was revealed on the screen. Totally engrossed in snapping photos of the caged birds, she never fully looked at John Smith when he approached her.

      “Do you believe her?” Sanchez asked.

      “Yeah, I do. I don’t think she knows John Smith, but I think he knows her. Look at this.” Hammer backed up the video to where Smith approached June. “See? He says something to her right there.”

      “You’re right.” Sanchez leaned forward, but shook his head. “Can’t make it out.”

      The surveillance continued to roll. When June didn’t react to Smith’s words, Smith either repeated them or said something new. The department’s lip reader was currently viewing the Sea Wave lobby video in an adjoining room. He’d have him take a look at this one, too.

      Glover moved into the frame. Dean made a derisive sound when the jerk grabbed June’s arm.

      “Glover is a real prince, isn’t he?” Sanchez said.

      “Watch Smith.” Smith stepped toward the confrontation, appearing ready to intervene to help June. His face contorted into fury. He fisted and opened his hands repeatedly, even lifted his right arm as if to take a swing at Glover.

      Now, that was interesting. Why would Smith react so strongly to Glover’s treatment of a woman he supposedly didn’t know?

      “Wow,” Sanchez said. “I didn’t notice that before.”

      Dean hadn’t, either, and that oversight pissed him off. He’d been too focused on the argument between June and Glover. Two days ago he hadn’t cared about John Smith’s reaction. Shit. Two weeks on patrol, and the inactivity had caused him to lose his edge. To stay sharp, he needed to focus. To follow procedure.

      Because he had a murder to solve, and right here was a clue. No question about it. He just had to figure out what the hell it meant. Just who was this mystery man Smith? What was his connection to June Latham? There had to be one.

      Dean knew in his gut that Smith’s appearance in the pet shop was no coincidence. He’d likely followed June in because he wanted to talk to her. What about? Birds?

      A hit-man-style murder on North Beach?

      Sanchez snickered when the video morphed into slapstick as parrots escaped their cages. Dean could almost hear their victorious squawks as they flapped their way to freedom. He paused the video.

      “You still going to have Ms. Latham come in and look at the hotel surveillance?” Sanchez asked.

      “Definitely. I have a few more questions for her.”

      “What about?”

      “I’ll let you know when I figure that out.” A preliminary background check had revealed no wants, no warrants. She’d never been arrested, never even received a traffic ticket, which he found odd, although she had a current driver’s license. Apparently a real solid citizen. Maybe too solid.

      Rebel Simpson, the department’s lip reader, entered the viewing room. “I’m done,” he said, “but you’re not going to like it.”

      “Give it to me,” Dean said.

      “It’s strange. The victim asked Smith if he had any spare change. Nothing startling there.” Rebel looked down at his notes. “At first Smith said, ‘Sorry, man. Can’t help you.’ Then Smith seemed to get an idea. He said, ‘I bet it’s miserable hot living on the streets this time of year.’ The vic agreed. Smith said, ‘How would you like to sleep in my room tonight?’

      “Seriously?” Dean said. “So Smith is gay and was looking to hook up?”

      “With a vagrant?” Sanchez asked.

      “I don’t think so,” Rebel said. “The vic objects, says he doesn’t roll that way. Smith insists no funny stuff, he’s just a nice guy and there’ll be a free meal in it for the vic.”

      “Yeah, right,” Sanchez muttered.

      “Why? Does Smith indicate the reason he’s performing this great public service?” Dean asked.

      “Smith says there’s two beds in an air-conditioned room. The vic is obviously hesitant, but when Smith mentions a fifth of vodka, that clinches the deal and they head into the hallway together.”

      “For a nice romantic evening,” Sanchez muttered.

      Rebel shrugged. “All I know is what they said to each other. Weird, huh?”

      “Doesn’t make a damn bit of sense,” Hammer said.

      “It does if Smith is gay,” Sanchez insisted.

      “Did your interviews with the street people on North Beach indicate Rocky was gay?” Hammer asked.

      “Nobody mentioned it,” Sanchez said, shaking his head. “And